In the Hollows of My Eyelids
by hell rings
Summary: Belphegor will never know what Mammon really looked like because their warped fairytale didn't end with a happily ever after - Prince the Ripper failed his not-princess and no 'true loves kiss' could bring her back. / BelMammon


**Rating**: T because I fucking feel like it :D  
**Summary**: Prince the Ripper had failed his not-princess, and no 'true loves kiss' could ever bring Mammon back.  
**Characters**: Belphegor and Mammon. Mentions of the rest of the Varia  
**Other notes**: So, I actually wrote something. It's been way too long - I'm happy I found a muse.  
**Disclaimer**: I am Jesus.

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**In the Hollows of My Eyelids**

He's a mess; stringing razor edged knives across the walls of his darkened kingdom, only lit by the cold sunlight that filters through curtains that were ripped up by him long ago during one of his blood lusted fits. The wires attached to each silver knife held taut and occasionally he would not see one and slice a small part of his skin open - precious rubies falling from his lightly tanned flesh, dotting along the floor and making a beautiful picture of deep red for him. He would only laugh to himself quietly and add more to the dangerous spider web that was slowly getting harder and harder to work his way through.

He could admit, it was only a _little_ fun.

Belphegor carefully makes it to the foot of his canopy bed, the bed sheets strewn halfway off of the piece of furniture and onto the floor without care. The blond sits against the wall with a faint smile and grabs a wire, pulling it down. Around him, it fell over the teen gently and he draws his knees to his lean chest, putting his chin on his knees. His smile is small, but more broken than ever as soft giggles escape his cracked lips. The tiara he _oh so proudly_ wears hangs haphazardly off his golden head, threatening to fall off and bounce off the floor and break and only drive him further into---

A knife slips out of his sleeve and catches the side of his pants, making a minuscule tear into the dark jeans he wore. It lands beside him and he reaches out for it, a wire weaved between a finger or two without the young prince realizing it. He grips the knife with his whole hand, and his fingers curl around the sharp blade. If it cuts into his skin he does not notice, looking beyond the fair curtain of bangs in front of his eyes and staring at the wall across from him. The long and muted shadows that are cast over it makes it look dismal, with the occasional patch of light shining through to it. He decides he somewhat likes that wall, knives dove beneath the paint of colors he can't recognize at the moment. He sees in blacks, whites, and reds for now. All the others are lost to him, although he has not a care in all of the bloody world for them for now. His breath---

_"Bel. Mammon is dead."_

---catches in his throat and he snaps back up, hitting his head and thin back against the wall with a sharp crack and everything is a blinding white before it's back to his normal. The diamonds on his crown gleam and catch his eyes, and Bel stares at it for a while before he notices that it really did fall to the floor. He tilts his head and brushes his fingers against the cool silver of the metal, and his grin grows only a fraction. He places the prized circlet back upon his golden head, idly playing with a lock of hair. He never got to touch Mammon's hair... He wonders what it felt like - when Mammon was an adult, of course. Not the infuriating and small brat he had once loved to carry around as if he was still a young and innocent child with a favourite plush. It's much too late for that, despite how childish he can act.

Once upon a time, he had seen Mammon use an illusion on herself to look as an adult. Indigo-blue hair that shined from underneath the hood of the long and dark robes she wore, pale skin that looked soft and frail because an illusionist had no need for physical strength, curves that an infant could never have, and tattooed adorned cheeks. But Mammon was a master at hiding the truth - the _ever so excellent_ liar. Belphegor will never know what Mammon really looked like because their warped fairytale didn't end with a happily ever after - Prince the Ripper failed his not-princess and no 'true loves kiss' could bring her back. No, now all he had was an uncute frog and poisoned apples he refused to parade around like a snake or a halo.

Perhaps Mammon had always been an illusion. Perhaps he was only overreacting. This was the first time his chest had ever hurt like _this_ and this was the first time he couldn't get the same rancid thought from buzzing around and repeating in his head. He didn't believe it at first, even though he was the one to find the body and the bullet hole right through her heart, and it took hours of Squalo yelling at him and Lussuria trying to convince him that the prince was actually wrong even though he was a genius. Levi was nowhere to be seen and Xanxus was making plans for a new Mist, finding the emotionless student to a soulless master. And Bel became like Mammon and crept to his room, hiding from either uninterested, angry glances or concerned, sad looks. They haven't seen the prince smile in days because he had no reason to - when he was alone he could think and the _thought of thinking_ made him curl up his lips in a small grin.

Maybe that was why Mammon was so solitary - because she liked to think to herself without the disruption of everyone else's sins while she indulged in her own greed. It wasn't something he would doubt, having seen her do nothing but count her endless stacks of money or read books she had already memorized. The Varia sloth understands nothing of her and can now only continue to understand nothing of her.

His shoulders start to shake and why does it hurt? If Mammon was really only an illusion and had him hopelessly under her toxic and bewitching spell, how does he feel this way? He had never imagined a person's death to affect him so much, especially after he had joined the Varia at the tender age of eight. However, here the Ripping Prince sits against a cracking wall of something he had never experienced and everything is fleeting. He only sits there and maybe days go by or it could be mere minutes or even seconds and he can't possibly tell. A knife is still in one of his hands, red seeping from his already scarred palm and into splits between the expensive floorboards, while his other hand is still playing with his hair. When did the funeral take place again?

But Belphegor's deranged smile creeps across his face and he drops his hand onto his one of his bony knees, gripping it tightly while he bleeds from the other hand without realizing. If he had been the one to be the coward and take his own life, Mammon wouldn't have let his death bring her to such a state. No one could replace Mammon because she was perfect. Only she wasn't quite perfect enough and Bel forgot how to cry so long ago when he had nothing but a mirror image and the sparkling white stone walls of a castle that may or may not exist in any other place except in his twisted memories anymore. And so the prince does the only thing he really knows how to do; it's a type of coping mechanism for now, he supposes.

He laughs, clenching the knife rigid until the metal sings against the bones of his shredded hand, because he doesn't know what else to do.


End file.
